At the end of a five-year-old’s winter—
“There’s a monster in there. I’m not lying, Yvonne. There really is a monster inside the wardrobe, okay?”
Angela, small enough that the wardrobe seemed massive in comparison, clung desperately to Yvonne’s fingers, trying to stop her from shutting the door.
Desperation always looked like this—so wretched, so pitiful.
But Yvonne, shaking off the tiny hands clinging to her, instead found herself the one pleading.
“Just once, my lady. Please, just this once. It’s only a wardrobe. There’s no such thing as monsters. There’s nothing in there, so please, just this once… please…”
“My sweet angel, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”
That was the last thing Yvonne said before she finally succeeded in pushing Angela inside the wardrobe.
With a heavy thud, the door slammed shut.
Inside, Angela wept, her tears falling in fat drops.
“Hic… Yvonne… Yvonne, please open the door… Yvonne… I-I don’t want to be in here… hic… I hate it here…”
Her trembling voice, mixed with sobs, spilled into the silence.
The only response was the click of the latch and the clank of the lock snapping into place.
The cold metal of the lock was even icier than winter itself, and her tears grew larger, swelling like raindrops before a storm.
Like a flood, Angela’s entire face was soaked in sorrow.
Yet, not once did she resent Yvonne.
Even at that young age, she understood.
She knew Yvonne had no choice.
She knew there was someone else to blame.
Grace Bilton.
The woman who had given birth to her.
It was all because of her.
—
“Yvonne.”
“Yes… Yes, my lady…”
“This wretched thing already resembles my husband. Do you see it too?”
Grace, who used to call Angela over just to slap her, changed her methods once Beatrice was born.
“Should I just pluck out these hideous amber eyes? Maybe then she wouldn’t look so much like him.”
Grace was the kind of person who might actually do it.
And she held Beatrice so carelessly in her arms that it seemed entirely possible she could drop her at any moment.
Yvonne, helpless, could do nothing but weep in anguish.
“P-please don’t, Mother. Please don’t do that. Please give Beatrice back. Yvonne will be devastated.”
It was Angela who had finally spoken up.
Her voice was quieter than a mosquito’s buzz, but still, she pleaded.
For Angela, who feared her mother more than anyone in the world, it had taken immense courage to say those words.
Grace looked down at Angela for a long moment.
Then, with a smirk, she tossed Beatrice into the arms of a waiting maid and reached out toward Angela.
Her bony fingers, dry as brittle twigs, stroked Angela’s head.
“My, my… Our Angela must be quite attached to Yvonne.”
The unexpected gentleness—the unfamiliar warmth in her voice—made Angela hesitate.
Slowly, she looked up.
Grace smiled, her face as beautiful as ever.
That was the day her hell began.
—
“Yvonne. Angela. My little wretch.”
Grace opened the wardrobe door and called out.
The meaning behind her words was unclear.
Yvonne, unsure how to respond, remained silent.
So Grace explained in a sweet, patient voice.
“This wardrobe won’t open again until morning. I’m asking—who should go inside?”
“My lady…!”
“Make a choice, Yvonne. Your daughter, or mine?”
Unable to choose, Yvonne knelt, begging for mercy.
Grace, pretending to be generous, gave her a new option.
“If you can’t say it, then just point.”
Even then, Yvonne only sobbed.
Grace sighed.
“You’ve spent more time with my daughter than your own. So naturally, it must be her, right?”
With a simple nod, Grace signaled to a maid holding Beatrice.
The maid immediately turned toward the wardrobe.
At that, Yvonne broke down completely, her cries spilling over.
In the end, her trembling hand moved.
Her finger, quivering like a leaf in the wind, pointed at Angela.
“I knew it.”
Grace smiled, satisfied.
And then, she dragged Angela by the arm.
—
From then on, whenever Grace felt bored, she would use Beatrice as a hostage to force Yvonne into making cruel choices.
“Who will you lock away?”
“Who will you starve?”
“Who will you beat?”
And with those twisted games, Grace dragged all the people she loathed into a pit of despair.
Just moments ago, Grace had ordered a maid to take Beatrice from Yvonne’s arms.
So Yvonne had no choice.
She had to push Angela into the wardrobe.
Beatrice was still just a baby.
She was too young.
And yet—
Even a five-year-old’s patience had limits.
Angela was always heartbroken that Yvonne never chose her.
“But… I’m a child too…”
She wiped her tears, swallowed them, but they kept spilling over.
—
“What… did you just say?”
Kalian, who had just returned from the estate to the capital’s mansion, turned to his butler, Emmet.
The words Emmet had just spoken weren’t complicated.
But they made no sense.
They were impossible to believe.
“Well, you see… It seems that Lady Bilton, your fiancée, was punished by Lady Yvonne today and… collapsed.”
At Kalian’s silent demand, Emmet hesitantly repeated what he had heard earlier that day.
Angela had been punished.
By her former nanny—now stepmother—Yvonne.
And why?
Because she had supposedly ordered a maid to burn her half-sister Beatrice’s hand with hot water.
Was that why the flower vase had shattered earlier?
Had it been a premonition of this moment?
A dark shadow fell over Kalian’s jet-black eyes.
“Shall I prepare the carriage for you?”
Emmet watched his master carefully.
Kalian brushed a hand over his face and nodded.
But before Emmet could move, Kalian shook his head.
No.
He didn’t have the patience to sit in a carriage and wait while the wheels slowly carried him to his destination.
“Forget it.”
His voice was firm.
With long strides, Kalian swept past Emmet and exited the building.
Heading straight to the stables, he mounted a horse himself.
Moments later, the gates of the Florence mansion flew open.
The sound of hooves thundered through the darkening streets.
Yvonne. That very same Yvonne had punished Angela.
A sudden visit at this late hour would normally be considered rude. However, the series of events that had unfolded at the Bilton estate today had caused quite a stir among the servants.
Not a single person asked Kalian why he had come at this hour.
They merely stepped aside, bowing in greeting, as if he was someone who was supposed to be here.
Kalian, having walked these halls countless times since the first day he set foot in the Bilton estate, crossed the familiar corridor in an instant.
He arrived at Angela’s door and immediately gripped the polished handle.
There was no need for permission. They had long since passed the point where knocking was required.
“Angela, it’s Kalian. May I come in?”
That polite question now existed only in the past.
So did the moments when he would open the door with a racing heart upon hearing Angela’s permission.
So did the times when he would shyly kiss the back of her hand as she came to greet him at the door.
All of it—nothing more than things of the past.
None of it held any meaning now.
Clack!
Kalian pushed the door open and stepped in with sharp, purposeful strides.
Angela stood alone by the window, bathed in the pale glow of the moonlight.
She wore only a thin nightgown, her bare skin exposed to the cool night air.
Winter was near, and the chill from outside seeped in through the open window.
Did that mean the talk of her collapse had merely been one of those lies she often used to summon him?
No.
The vacant look in her eyes was eerily unsettling.
Her lifeless gaze, staring blankly into nothingness, stirred dangerous thoughts.
A bad feeling crept over him.
If he left her like this, something would happen.
Without hesitation, Kalian strode to the window and shut it firmly.
Then, he stood in front of it, blocking her path, and looked down at her.
This is maddening.
Kalian barely swallowed the words before they left his mouth.
Had he let his guard down for even a second, he might have spoken his thoughts aloud.
“……”
Clamping his mouth shut, Kalian carefully observed Angela.
She stood there like a lifeless figure, as if she had lost her soul.
Her face, drained of emotion, looked so distant and faint that it wouldn’t have been strange if she simply vanished from existence.
Well.
She had lived her entire life untouched by punishment.
For someone like her, being disciplined by Yvonne—the very woman she had always scorned—must have been a tremendous shock.
That pride of hers must have been shattered.
Kalian furrowed his brows and ran a hand over his face before speaking.
“What punishment did Lady Yvonne give you?”
Silence.
“Did she whip you?”
Still no answer.
“Lady Bilton.”
It was only after he addressed her formally, with unwavering authority, that she finally reacted.
Her lowered lashes trembled faintly before her unfocused eyes moved.
Her gaze, lost and searching, wandered for a long time before it finally landed on Kalian’s face.
“Kalian…”
The moment she recognized him, Angela suddenly threw herself into his arms.
She didn’t demand to know why he had come so late.
She didn’t accuse him of making her wait.
Instead, her arms clung to him, fingers digging into his back with a desperate grip.
“Yvonne… Yvonne locked me in the wardrobe… I told her no… I told her I didn’t want to… I told her I hated it…”
Her voice trembled, a mix of rage and sorrow.
“I hate her, Kalian… I-I hate Yvonne so much…”
Kalian, momentarily stiff from the unexpected contact, let out a small sigh.
It was difficult to feel sympathy.
Angela had committed too many misdeeds for that.
Yvonne had merely returned a fraction of what she had endured.
“Lady Bilton has done far worse without hesitation.”
“Kalian…?”
Angela blinked up at him, confusion flickering in her eyes.
“Before saying you hate Yvonne, perhaps you should reflect on your own actions first.”
Silence.
“Why did you do that to Beatrice? She wasn’t even doing anything.”
Silence again.
“How long do you intend to keep behaving this way? Isn’t it time to stop?”
With every word, Angela’s grip weakened.
Her hands, once clenched around his back, trembled before slowly retreating.
She took a step back, staring up at Kalian.
“Kalian…”
Her voice, full of injustice, sought comfort.
But Kalian didn’t waver.
His gaze remained cold and indifferent.
Angela suddenly laughed—a sharp, unsettling sound.
Then, in an instant, the laughter cut off.
She lifted her hand, her fingers unwavering, and pointed to the door.
“Get out.”
“Lady Bilton.”
“I said, get out.”
“Lady—”
“I don’t want to see your face, Count Florence. Get out. Now!”
Angela’s voice erupted into a furious scream.
As if that wasn’t enough, she stormed toward the table in the center of the room and swept everything onto the floor.
A teapot, its lid clattering loose, rolled to a stop near Kalian’s feet.
Kalian glanced down, taking in the mess.
The aftermath of Angela’s temper was plain to see.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression tightening.
Then, without another word, he turned toward the door.
His footsteps echoed as he walked away.
Behind him, Angela’s ragged breathing filled the silence.
She had been standing by the window.
And for a fleeting moment, Kalian had let himself worry.
He had allowed himself to be fooled.
Again.
He clenched his jaw.
“Lady Bilton.”
His hand on the doorknob, he paused.
Without turning around, he spoke.
“You are… a difficult person to love.”
And with that—slam!
The door shut behind him.
Angela flinched at the loud, final sound.
Her breath hitched.
Her heart, which had ached for so long, felt as if it had plummeted into a void.
No matter how much she pounded, no matter how desperately she pleaded, the wardrobe door had never opened.
And now, she felt trapped inside it once again.
The suffocating despair made it hard to breathe.
—
Kalian stood with his back against the door, unmoving.
When he had walked out, he had meant to leave for good.
But something heavy held him in place.
He couldn’t take a single step away.
Yet, going back inside wasn’t an option either.
That would only fuel Angela’s arrogance.
If she realized that Kalian Florence would always come back, she would become even more reckless.
He didn’t even want to imagine how much worse she could become.
“Haah.”
Kalian sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes.
Dealing with Angela was more exhausting than leading an army of a million soldiers.
Just as he was thinking that—
“Are you leaving?”
A voice, filled with unmistakable urgency, called out from close by.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
